


The Fortean San Franciscan

by miss_grey



Series: What We Do In The Dark [53]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Paranormal Investigators, Supernatural AU - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:28:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22021813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: It's a thankless job, fighting against the forces of evil by enlightening the clueless public about the things that go bump in the night, but someone's gotta do it.
Series: What We Do In The Dark [53]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1366063
Comments: 28
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lysel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysel/gifts).
  * Inspired by [How do you spell "Altamaha-ha" ?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20994317) by [Lysel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysel/pseuds/Lysel). 



> Alright folks, another story, another adventure. These boys have been waiting so patiently. :)
> 
> PS: This one is all Lysel's fault XD

“Hey Christenson,” Smokey called from his cluttered and cramped office space, “you got that sketch done yet? I’m almost ready to post, here.”

An aggrieved sigh came from the small, closet-sized space on the other side of the partition (there was only so much room in Smokey’s basement, alright?!). Christenson called “Almost done. The claws on this Chupacabra are giving me a hard time, though.”

Smokey shook his head, resigned to wait a little bit longer. You couldn’t rush Pat’s art, but the end product was always worth the wait. Still, “I don’t know how these attacks haven’t made the mainstream news.” Smokey muttered, reviewing his weekly blog post.

“You know why,” Christenson called from the other side of the partition. “The Man doesn’t want the public to know about these things. It’s a conspiracy.”

“Yeah,” Smokey said, frowning at his editorial on the attacks. “That’s why it’s up to guys like us to try to get the word out.”

“Here,” Christenson said, appearing on Smokey’s side of the partition. He handed over the drawing of the Chupacabra, as accurate as he could make it from the countless witness testimonies they’d heard over the last month. “Good?”

“Great,” Smokey nodded, scanning it onto his computer. He did some final edits, added the image, then posted their latest post to their blog _The Fortean San Franciscan._ He leaned back in his chair, feeling satisfied with a good morning’s work. He turned to look at his friend, his partner in this madness. “It’s a thankless job, Pat,” Smokey said, “but someone’s gotta fight against the forces of evil by enlightening the public.”

“Right.” Christenson nodded. “How many hits did we get on the last post?”

Smokey frowned at the computer and clicked on their stats. “Ten.” He sighed. “We need to find a new way to advertise.”

“We could get a sign.” Christenson suggested. “For our office.”

Smokey tapped his chin, thinking about it for a second. The basement did, after all, have its own door. Yeah, a sign might be a good idea. “That’s a thought.” He conceded.

“Can you see where our readers are located?”

“Maybe. Let’s give it a look.” Smokey clicked on a few buttons and eventually found a map that had pinpointed the IP addresses of his readership. He frowned. “Most of them are in…other countries. Huh. Maybe they’re more open-minded.” He hummed.

“Is that one?” Christenson asked, leaning over Smokey to poke at the computer screen.

Sure enough, a single red dot showed up in their very own city of San Francisco. “I think that’s us.” Smokey huffed.

“No, look close, there are two of them. There’s another in the city.”

“Hell yeah,” Smokey said, beaming. “We’re making progress.”

* * *

“Hey Smokey, do you have the transcript from that interview we did with Mrs. Jenkins?”

“The haunting?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh…yeah, I digitized it already. Why?”

“Wanted to review the description again.”

“Oh, sure, I’ll forward it to you.” Smokey attached the file and sent it to his friend. “Alright. Sent.”

“Thanks. Any comments on last week’s post?”

“A girl from China liked your artwork of the Chupacabra.”

Smokey could just imagine Christenson preening at the compliment. “Well, hey, that’s something.” He murmured.

“Yeah. That’s about it, though. Maybe the sign’ll get us some more attention, like you said.” They’d hand-painted a sign that read _The Fortean San Franciscan_ and stuck it in the grass in Smokey’s front yard, next to the door that led to the basement.

“Yeah,” Christenson said, “Fingers crossed.”

* * *

Smokey jolted awake at his desk, a paper stuck to his cheek where he’d drooled on it. He looked around, searching for what had woken him. From the other side of the partition, he heard Christenson stumble to his feet and come around the side. “What was that?” He asked.

“Dunno.” Smokey murmured, rising to his feet. 

It came again. A banging at the door and a growl.

“Oh, God,” Smokey hissed, grabbing for the closest object that he might be able to use as a weapon. All he came up with was a stapler. “They’ve come for us.”

“Who?” Christenson hissed back.

“The Fed. A monster. Who the hell knows? But it’s—” Smokey glanced at his screen. “It’s 2am and….”

Another bang, another growl and the cadence of a voice. 

“Shit.” Christenson muttered.

Suddenly, from the other side of the door, they heard a soft “fuck it” then the door knob clicked, twisted, and then two shadows moved into the room.

Smokey yelped and flicked the overhead light on.

His first impression was boots. Large, heavy, combat boots and…paws. “’Sup,” the guy said, narrowing his eyes at them against the glare of the overhead light, “you the Fortean guys?” He was tall, skinny, dressed in boots, jeans, and a black t-shirt with an army jacket thrown over it. His face was thin, lightly tanned, with a smirking mouth. Next to him, a large black dog stood wide, paws braced confidently. The dog was a mix of some sort. It looked like an Australian Shepherd, but with a tail like a Labrador, black except for a white patch around one of its eyes, which were a pale greenish blue. 

Smokey gulped and cast a quick look at Christenson, who looked just as freaked out as him. “Who—who’s asking?”

The guy quirked a brow and sauntered further into the room, casting appraising eyes all around before fixing them on Smokey once more. The dog advanced in stride with him. “Name’s Liebgott, Joe. So, you the guys?”

“Did you pick our lock?” Christenson blurted, as if he couldn’t help himself.

Joe Liebgott shrugged. “We knocked. No one answered.”

Smokey’s mouth hung open. If this guy was here to hurt them, lying wouldn’t do them much good. He’d already found them. _Damn that sign._ Might as well tell the truth and see what happened.

“Yeah,” Smokey said, rolling his shoulders back, ready for a fight, stapler or no stapler. “We’re them.”

Liebgott appraised them again. “You’re not what I expected.” Then he shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, I wanted to let you know we took care of the Chupacabra. It won’t be terrorizing anymore farmers.”

Smokey’s mouth dropped open. “You…you _took care_ of the Chupacabra?! What does that mean?!”

Liebgott snorted. “I hunted it. What do you think it means?” He rolled his eyes and then dropped a hand to the dog’s head. He trailed his fingers through its fur, scratched behind its ear.

“You just…hunted it? Wait—you read our blog?”

Liebgott narrowed his eyes on them like they were stupid. “Well, yeah. You guys usually have pretty good intel.”

Smokey and Christenson exchanged a look. “You…you believe us?”

A snort. “Hard not to, when you’ve seen the shit I have.” He cast his gaze around, frowning again at their apparently unimpressive set-up. “Anyway, just wanted to let you know that the job was done and wanted to see if you guys had a tip on another? I’ve got some time on my hands.”

“Another?” Christenson gulped, throat bobbing.

“Yeah, another hunt.”

Smokey shook his head. “What is all this…hunting?”

Liebgott stared at him for a long, long moment. Then he scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You’ve gotta be shitting me. Please tell me you know what hunters are.”

“Uh… people who hunt animals?”

“Fuck,” Liebgott said, shaking his head. “I could’ve sworn you guys knew. Your information is always so good.”

“We—we try to inform people about what’s out there.”

“Yeah, well, you guys’d be a lot more successful if you knew who you were actually talking to.” Liebgott shifted on his feet and the dog cast its eerie gaze up at him. “Good girl, Maddie,” the man cooed, “sit.” The dog sat. Liebgott cocked a hip and crossed his arms. “Look, all the shit you guys’ve been writing about? It’s true. I don’t know how you stumble on these things, but you’re pretty good at digging up information. What you apparently _don’t_ know is that there _are_ people out there who believe you. People who _do something_ about the things that go bump in the night.”

“People like you?” Smokey asked.

“Yeah. People like me. Hunters. There’s a whole, nation-wide network of us. Bet they’d appreciate your work.” He waved his hands to indicate Smokey’s sad-looking basement. “You wanna do some real good? I can hook you up.”

Smokey’s heart raced. This guy was either crazy, or he was legit. Either way, there was a man currently standing in his basement who said he believed them. He looked tough. He looked capable. He looked like he’d definitely either just killed a Chupacabra or he might kill them. Either way, what was Smokey to do? He met Christenson’s own wide eyes and then finally shrugged, holding out a hand. “Smokey Gordon, at your service.”

Liebgott clasped his hand and grinned wickedly. “Welcome aboard.”


	2. Aliens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was Lysel's brainchild that I have also adopted. I hope everyone enjoys it as much as we do XD

“Smoke, you’re not gonna believe this,” Christenson said, poking his head into the basement where his friend was hard at work typing up the week’s blog post.

“Believe what?” Smokey asked distractedly, squinting at a typo on the screen. 

“We just got a call. Lady in Pescadero said she saw….” 

“What?” Smokey barked, finally giving Pat his full attention. “What did she see?”

Christenson’s mouth split into a grin so big it crinkled his eyes. “She says she saw an alien.”

Smokey just stared at his friend, torn between wanting to laugh and rolling his eyes. “An alien.”

“Yep.”

Smokey huffed. “Was this lady on drugs or just pulling your leg, Pat?”

Christenson shrugged and sauntered down the steps into the basement. He brought the smell of cooking food with him, and Smokey wondered just what he’d been up to in the kitchen. No matter—there was time for food later. Christenson crossed his arms as he came to lean against the partition and look down at his friend. “Didn’t sound like either, honestly. I think she believes she saw an alien.”

Smokey couldn’t help it this time. He rolled his eyes. “Fine, alright. I’ll bite. What did she say?”

Pat grinned down at him. “She said there’s a little woods nearby her house and for the last couple nights, she’s seen this alien wandering through the trees.”

“Did she give you a description?” Smokey asked, but before his friend could answer, he said, “Let me guess—little green men, big black eyes, strange lights?”

Christenson stared at him for a second before he shrugged again. “Nope.”

Well, now Smokey’s interest was actually piqued, against his better judgement. “Tell me.”

“She said it’s tall and has lanky limbs and a long, skinny neck. She shined a light at it once, and its eyes glowed green, though she couldn’t see anything else in the darkness before it darted away. But she can hear it in the woods at night. She said it makes a strange whining-humming sound, or sometimes a high-pitched screech. She sounded pretty freaked out.”

Okay, so maybe she was on to something. “What does she want us to do about it?”

Pat grinned again, like it was Christmas and his birthday rolled into one. “Investigate.”

* * *

Smokey huffed and dug his hand into the chip bag, crunching on a handful obnoxiously as Christenson sat serenely behind the wheel of his car. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Smokey complained, again. It was a Saturday afternoon and they were on their way to Pescadero at Pat’s insistence.

The man in question rolled his eyes good naturedly. “Look, you’re the one who’s always saying that we have to up our game to improve our readership, right? Well, this is our chance! We’re upgrading, Smokey.”

“From what?” Smokey asked around another handful of chips.

Pat grinned. “From reporters to investigators!” Nothing could keep him down.

* * *

Mrs. Agatha Bell met them on the porch, wringing her hands anxiously as she called out to them. “Thank you! Oh, thank you!” She looked to be about 80 years old and she didn’t even reach their shoulders. Smokey suddenly felt bad for all of his grumbling and eye-rolls. She seemed like a sweet, little old lady who was obviously scared.

“Not a problem,” Smokey said as he ascended the steps to shake her hand. “Why don’t you tell us a bit more about what you saw.”

Christenson quirked a brow knowingly at his friend and dug out the small, hand-held recorder so he could record the interview. “Start at the beginning,” he added encouragingly.

Mrs. Bell ushered them to some low, white wicker chairs and folded her hands primly in her lap before she began to tell her story.

Smokey and Pat nodded along encouragingly as the grandmother related her terrifying close-encounter tale. As she spoke, Smokey cast his eyes to the woods behind the woman’s house. Close. Too close for comfort. What sorts of mysteries were those trees hiding? And why was the alien hanging around here?

“Have you investigated many cases like this?” Mrs. Bell asked.

“No,” Smokey said distractedly, shading his eyes to try to see further into the tree line. “This one is a first for us.”

Mrs. Bell nodded along. “A friend of mine, Maureen—she reads your blog. She told me that you boys were the ones to call. She said you’d be able to help me.” Her blue eyes, magnified behind thick glasses, blinked imploringly at them. “Do you think you’ll be able to help me?”

Smokey felt his heart clench—she reminded him of his own grandmother. But before he could answer, Christenson laid a comforting hand over hers and said “We’ll do what we can.”

“Right.” Smokey said, clearing his throat. “We’d like to investigate. Stake out the place tonight.” He smiled reassuringly at Mrs. Bell. “With your permission, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Mrs. Bell said. “You boys just go ahead and do whatever you have to. I don’t want to be abducted by that alien.”

Well. What were they supposed to say to that?

There was nothing to do but wait.

After they’d set up their thermal imaging camera and recording device, Mrs. Bell fed them meatloaf and lemonade on the porch, smiling at them like they were heroes. “You boys are so brave,” she gushed, “I bet you help people all the time.”

Smokey and Christenson shared a look. “We try.” Smokey assured her. After she’d gone back inside, Smokey took a gulp of his lemonade and began to recheck the equipment. “Everything looking good, Pat?”

“Yep, looking good.”

“Alright.”

“So…what do you think it is?” Christenson asked, spearing a green bean on the end of his fork. The sun was setting quickly and the fireflies were beginning to glint in and out of the bushes.

“I dunno,” Smokey admitted, feeling chagrined. “I don’t think it’s an alien, though.”

Christenson frowned thoughtfully. “Why not?”

“Aliens aren’t real.”

“That’s what most people think about monsters.”

Smokey huffed. “Yeah, well.” He took another gulp of lemonade—it was very refreshing. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

As darkness settled around the house, Smokey and Christenson made sure that Mrs. Bell was comfortable inside, watching Wheel of Fortune and going about her usual nightly routine. They sat on the edge of the porch, the lights out, camera in hand, and waited. The sky turned from an orangish pink to purple, to a deep blue, and then it was dark.

“Alright, come on.” Smokey said, jumping down into the grass. “Let’s go.” He maneuvered quietly over the grass, the thermal camera pointing straight ahead. He tried to focus on the view in front of him so that he wouldn’t trip on a clump of grass or get tangled in a tree’s roots, but his eyes kept flicking down to the screen, where he saw nothing but the ghostly, purple-blue of the trees. Behind him, Pat carried their recording device and tried to be quiet, but his feet were heavy and so was his breath. “Quiet down.” Smokey huffed.

“Sorry,” Christenson murmured. “It’s just that….” His mouth snapped shut and he jerked his head up, suddenly silent except for his pounding heart. He thought he’d heard….

It came again. A low, honking moan, unlike any noise he’d ever heard before. Chills erupted along his arms and neck and his mouth went suddenly dry. He wanted to ask _WHAT WAS THAT?!_ But he was afraid to make a sound. Smokey had frozen in front of him, still as a statue, and Christenson just prayed that his buddy wouldn’t haul ass and leave him behind.

The noise came again, closer this time, and was accompanied by the sound of rustling leaves. With a shaking hand, Christenson tapped Smokey on the shoulder and pointed to their right, where the leaves rustled again. Slowly, fearfully, Smokey turned the camera, his own hands shaking. He caught a glimpse of long, gangly limbs and a long neck, right before the camera picked up the yellow and red of body heat and glowing, evil eyes. He gasped a breath, terrified, and the creature shrieked. All the hair on his body rose at once and he opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out, and then suddenly Pat’s hand was on his shoulder, tight, and his friend was pulling him backward from the woods. 

The sounds of a large, heavy creature crashing through the underbrush followed them, but they didn’t stop, didn’t let up, until they reached the relative safety of Mrs. Bell’s porch.

Smokey vaulted up the stairs, Christenson at his heels, and he collapsed against the wall, his breath gasping, heart racing. Hands still shaking, he held the camera out in front of him, pointed toward the woods where they could still hear the alien crashing through the underbrush.

“Oh God,” Smokey gasped, “it’s real. It’s real.”

From inside the house, they heard Mrs. Bell call “Did you say something, dear?”

“Stay—stay inside Mrs. Bell!” Smokey ordered. Beside him, Pat was trembling.

Together, they faced the darkness and they waited.

The creature shrieked, leaves rustled and branches were pushed aside. Finally, terrifyingly, glowing eyes emerged from the shadows.

They weren’t prepared for this. They’d never faced an alien before in their lives (or any other monsters, actually, but that was beside the point.) They were too young to die. Too inexperienced. This was supposed to be a joke.

The creature lumbered nearer, its eyes perched atop a long, lanky neck. It tipped its head back and screamed again.

Smokey was going to pass out, he just knew it. The only thing keeping him on his feet was the fear of what the creature might do to his unconscious body.

Pat laid a hand on his arm for a moment (the contact almost made Smokey scream) then pointed toward the thing. “Smoke, look. I think….” His friend leaned forward an inch, squinting into the darkness. “I think it’s a….”

The creature ambled into the light of the porch and Smokey’s breath caught in his throat a moment before his jaw dropped. He choked on his own hysterical laugh. “Is that a…a llama?”

Pat shook his head. “Alpaca. They’re smaller.”

Still shaking, Smokey switched the camera off and set it aside. “What should we do now?” He asked, voice hollow. 

Pat shrugged. “Catch him, I guess.”

It was easier than they’d thought, to lure an alpaca to the edge of the porch and hitch him there. All it took was a rope, fashioned into a lasso, and a couple apples and carrots as bribes. Smokey had watched, in a mixture of horror, relief, and fascination, as Christenson and Mrs. Bell both cooed at the creature until it was close enough to feed and then began to pet it while it ate. The alpaca continued to make strange chuffing sounds during the process and Smokey couldn’t believe that a furry farm animal had nearly given him a heart attack.

In the light of the porch, it was easy to see that the alpaca had leaves and twigs stuck in its wool and it had obviously been wandering for a while. Though it was a bit skittish, it seemed happy to be around people again, where it could be fed and petted.

“What are we going to do with it?” Smokey asked, sounding more dignified now.

Mrs. Bell ran a hand over the alpaca’s neck and said “It’s adorable, isn’t it? But I fear I’m too old to take care of it. I wouldn’t even know where to put it.”

“Yeah.” Smokey shoved his hands in his pockets, thinking that they’d have to call animal control in the morning or something. Christenson shifted on his feet and Smokey turned toward him. “What?”

“We could….” He saw the man’s eyes widen, hopeful, and suddenly Smokey felt suspicious that Christensen had hoped for something like this all along.

“No. Absolutely not.” Smokey shook his head emphatically. “We are _not_ taking an alpaca home with us.” Christenson’s eyes widened pleadingly and his lip jutted just a fraction, but Smokey was immune to it at this point. Puppy eyes had no power over him. Smokey crossed his arms. “Never gonna happen.”

It did. They named him Tim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter inspired by Lysel! Here are some of her artworks:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/23734714  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/23864908

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments are love, so please let me know what you thought! Also, feel free to come say hi on tumblr. I'm @realhunterswearplaid.


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